


We, Changing

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Anniversary, F/M, Healing, Married Couple, Romance, Scars, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: There's nothing logical about  . . . anything. What she wants to do. Why she's so damned insistent on doing it and who she wants there. Or who she doesn’t want there, really, because privacy is still a fantasy. Hell, even agonizingly slow, shuffling co-dependence is still a damned luxury, six months on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A second anniversary fic, requested by @beckettcastlealways41319 on tumblr.

We are not the same persons this year as last;

nor are those we love.

It is a happy chance if

we, changing,

continue to love a changed person.

— W. Somerset Maugham

* * *

There's nothing logical about  . . . anything. What she wants to do. Why she's so damned insistent on doing it and who she wants there. Or who she _doesn’t_ want there, really, because privacy is still a fantasy. Hell, even agonizingly slow, shuffling co-dependence is still a damned luxury, six months on. 

But she wants. She _wants,_ and if it doesn't happen, there's the real possibility of tears. Ugly, endless tears.

"Kate. It hasn't been a good day,” Ray calls out gently from the other room. From outside the massive closet-slash-dressing-area they've carved out of the first floor in this massive, necessary rearrangement. 

She hates the space more than a little. Hates having yet another scar on her conscience. But right now, she fucking hates Ray and his gentle admonitions. She, in fact, hates Ray for so many reasons, not least of which is the fact that he's used her first name without permission since she was too exhausted and hopped up on pain meds to object. 

"Not a newsflash, Ray," she says, trying to dial it down. It's not easy. She's struggling with the last ten million buttons on the blouse she's foolishly chosen.  Emerald green and silky. Low cut, close fitting and pretty, but it's got ten million buttons, and she was exhausted before the first dozen. "But the day won't move."

She drops into the chair that's farther from the tall, ridiculous Cheval mirror than she'd like. The chair she'd rather not need, but she does, and today's the day she'll own that. Today's the day she'll own and submit to and approach the world as it is right now, meek as you'll like, but it's the day she'll fucking have.

"Ramping up is always tough. It's not just you." Ray's voice is closer now. She looks up from the dratted buttons, but he's not there. Not in the mirror, at least. Still, he’s hovering, and that’s exactly what she she’s having none of. "Rick won’t even be finished until  . . . "

"Castle," she leans into the name. Into the proper distance and paradoxical, sizzling intimacy of it in her own mouth, "will be done in plenty of time." 

“Are you decent?” he asks. He rounds the corner without waiting, but she _is_ decent. She’s done with the fucking buttons. She stands triumphantly to face him, but he's scowling. “You’re exhausted,” he says. So maybe not so triumphantly. 

“Saved my caffeine.” She turns back to the mirror, giving the circles beneath her eyes a more honest appraisal than she had. "And my booze. Downers, then uppers," she adds, just to make him sigh. Just to get his goat, because he might be spectacular at what he does, but she's never hated him more than she does today. 

"You'll be useless tomorrow," he warns. "Both of you." 

"God, I hope so." She strides past him. Slowly, but it’s a fucking stride, and even though she’s stiff and sore and, yes, _exhausted_ from the new PT regimen, that's a win. Enough of a win that she goes for the jewelry box on the bureau. She lifts her arms swiftly. Without thinking. " _Jesus._ " she inhales sharply through her nose and tries to keep her core tight. Tries not to double over, because she might not get back up again. "Jesus," she says again, and Ray's right there. He's _hovering,_ and if she weren't falling apart at the seams—possibly literally, her scars are absolutely on fire—she'd haul off and hit him. 

"Which?" he asks quietly. 

He's holding the box out to her with the lid propped open. Bracelets and rings catch the light, each one nestled into its velvet. Earrings dangle and gleam. They stud the scarlet plush background, but it's a necklace she wants. One of the half dozen or so swaying on hooks. 

"That." She gestures to the one on the end without looking too hard. She just wants _something_. A gesture, even though it's not a Grace Kelly gown and a chignon with a million hair pins. She wants . . . something. 

Ray lifts her choice from the hook and dangles it high. It's a braided chain, black and dull yellow gold, that ends in a kind of tassel. He gives her a heavy look. "No." His tone is as unanswerable here, fighting over accessories, as it's ever been on the mats or massage table during her PT. "This." 

He lifts the long chain free and holds it up. It's brass colored. Much better with the tiny penny-nail buttons of her shirt, and the sprawling filigree knot of a pendant hits in just the right spot below her collarbones when Ray slips it over her head. 

"See?" He lifts the lid wider so she can get the not-quite-full effect in the tiny mirror.  "Perfect."

"Perfect," she agrees absently. 

It _is_ perfect, but she can't remember where the piece came from. If it's something she kept from Martha's well-intentioned offerings. Or maybe her dad unearthed it during one of the bouts of nostalgia he's been prone to lately. She wonders if it's old or new or stolen or borrowed, and she likes not knowing. She likes that it doesn't have a story. 

Not yet anyway. 

 

* * *

 

Ray complains about everything. He warns her about everything, up to and including the likelihood of her death from exposure. 

"New York in November." He testily counts the blankets stacked on the bench again. Holds his hand out toward the kerosene heater. "Dumb thing to die from after all that nonsense." He makes a gesture so vague that it looks like he's trying to vogue. 

It makes her laugh. Everything makes her laugh, now that she's out here. Now that she's as sure as she is of anything that she'll have this. _They'll_ have this. 

"It's 53 degrees, Ray." She flattens her palms against the white, flat top of the low wall at her left. She feels the wind off the water calling color into her cheeks and shivers in pleasant anticipation. She turns to the dour, hulking therapist with a grin she feels right down to her toes. "Now get lost."

She sees a dozen objections cross his face. A _dozen_ dozen, about stairs and the dark and the distance back to the house. About the tiny split of champagne chilling in the oversized silver bucket and the cold and a host of delicate phrases for what she _is_ and _isn't_ healthy enough for. What the two of them _are_ and _aren't_ supposed to be getting up to, and the laugh nearly turns to a howl. To an insistent roar. 

It's just about to go that way when she goes quiet inside.  She turns away from Ray instead. She rises, more on instinct than anything, and there he is. Just rounding the corner, oh-so-slowly, and her breath catches.  It always does. Ever since. _Ever since . . ._

Her breath catches, because he's an upright miracle. Tall and broad and stronger every day. But it's more than that today. Today, he's in a crisp white shirt that actually fits, and the dark, soft jacket she loves doesn't hang from his frame the way it has lately. Today he's got a pale, curling lily in his buttonhole, white with a tangerine sunset kiss and a hint of spring green.

His face lights up as he moves toward her, slow but steady. Easier in his healing body than he was even a few days ago back in the city. His eyes widen as he takes her in. The pretty blouse and skinny jeans that knock him back more than any Grace Kelly gown could. The warm glint of pendant that doesn't have a story yet. His nostrils flare and he picks up the pace. Holds up a palm to Ray as he strides right by.

"You heard the wife, Ray," he says without looking. "Get lost."

 

* * *

 

"You're in my spot," he murmurs as he mounts the last step and kisses the familiar, blushing _hi_ right from her cheeks.  

"Good spot." Her eyes drift closed as his lips capture hers. "I like the view."

"Speaking of . . ." He takes her hand and steps back to look her up and down. His attention snags on the pendant. His hand rises to toy with it. To feel its weight and warmth. "Speaking of . . . " he breathes. 

"And you," she laughs, stepping back into his body to run her palm over the crisp lines of his shirt. She casts her eyes downward and flicks her gaze back up with an exaggerated flutter of lashes. "Tucked in and everything. Fancy."

"Not for long, I hope." He dips his head to nuzzle her neck. Chuckles when the counterpoint of his cool fingers draws a gasp from her as they find bare skin beneath the hem of her shirt.

"Easy, Castle." She ducks away a little. Just a little, because she wants this day. She wants the gestures she's taken pains with and the brightness of his smile in answer. 

"For you, Beckett? Always." He gives chase. He follows her to the bench and steadies her as she sits. Holds out his palm without hesitation and lets her do the same for him, rumbling in her ear as they settle. "Easier than ever lately. As you well know." 

She kisses him hard for that. Winces a little at the quick movement, though today it's more that she expects the pain than feels it, and that's a miracle too. She kisses him hard, because she _does_ know. Because it's been their rebellion all these months. Sneaking into the same bed when they weren't supposed to. Fooling around with all the grace and enthusiasm teenagers when his body and her body and both together were nowhere near ready.

"Not too easy just yet." She grins at him. Eats it up when he grins back, even though she's making him wait. "I have plans." His hand slides up to her knee, and it's an effort to head him off at the pass. "G-rated plans first." 

She thrusts his fingers from her. She tries to, but he pushes back. It hurts a little. His and hers pain, but it makes him smile. It parts her lips and draws a delighted laugh up and out of her, because he's strong. _She's_ strong, and still, when he gives in—when he lets her shoo him toward the ice bucket—it's not because he has to. 

"Champagne," he says, and his voice is a little rough. He covers the fullness of the moment with the lift of one eyebrow when he spies the label. " _Good_ champagne. Been a while, Beckett. This might vault us right over my X-rated hopes." 

"No." The steel in her voice swings his head around. Arrests the motion of his hands, still at work on the bottle's wire cage. "It wouldn't dare. Not today." 

When she's sure she has his attention—absolutely sure—she reaches up. She's slow about it. She sore—still sore as _hell—_ but it's not agonizing. Not today, and not lately, and every single thing about this moment is a miracle. 

The way he sits up straight. 

The warmth of her knee where it brushes his. 

The watercolor sunset over the waves. 

The blissful fucking privacy stretching out from now till morning. 

The way his breath catches when her arm reaches its full extension and her fingers unfurl. 

The slight resistance of the cord and the feel of it giving way. The silver banner wafting down, and even the drop of the foil weight as it clunks on to the bench beside him while the balloon bops him in the face. The rain of bright-colored confetti and the way he pops the cork without looking. The spill of champagne over his fingers and hers as she kisses him and he kisses her, each unhurried because they have all night. They have this day. 

"Happy anniversary." 

She pours the words into his mouth, then sips them back out again, slowly. _Slowly._

"Happy anniversary."  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Late, but I hope it serves.


End file.
